Still Lake Read Online Free PDF Page B

mean? Doing without sex?”
    â€œThis course you’ve set your life on. You’re not even thirty years old and you’ve moved to the back end of beyond to work like a dog on this old place.There are no eligible men around, no movies, no bookstores, nothing to do but work on this old house and take care of your family. Don’t you deserve a better life than that?”
    â€œThere aren’t any eligible men in New York—they’re all either gay or married,” Sophie said. “And I think this is a very nice life, indeed. I want to take care of you, Mama.”
    Grace shook her head. “I’m sixty years old, Sophie. I don’t need taking care of. I think you should sell this place,” she said. “Go find your own life.”
    â€œI wouldn’t find a buyer—not at this point. Once I prove it’s a going concern then maybe people would want to buy it, but right now I’m afraid we’re stuck.”
    Grace’s expression changed, slowly, as if a veil was being pulled over her mind. “Of course, love,” she murmured in that vague tone. “Whatever you think is best.”
    Whatever you think is best . The words echoed in Sophie’s ears as she wandered out onto the wide front porch. The moon had risen over the lake, and the night was clear and cool. The overstuffed, refurbished glider sat in one corner, beckoning her, and she wanted to go and curl up on it, tuck her hands beneath her head and stare at the night sky.
    She had paperwork to do. She had bread dough to make, so that it would rise overnight in the refrigerator. She had laundry and menus and a columnto write. She had to spend at least half an hour worrying about Grace and Marty, and she had to do it all without a cigarette.
    She’d come to Vermont hoping to simplify her life. To get back to basics, to concentrate on day-to-day living. So how had it all gotten so incredibly complicated?
    She looked down toward the Whitten house. From this vantage point she could barely see it in the woods, just a faint light shining through the trees. There was something about the mysterious Mr. Smith that didn’t seem right. If he’d moved to Colby to set up some kind of year-round business he’d made a stupid move. There wasn’t enough work to support him. And Mr. Smith didn’t strike her as a particularly stupid man.
    He didn’t strike her as a Mr. Smith, either. There was something more going on, and unlike her mother, Sophie had never been fond of unsolved mysteries.
    It was probably simple enough. He might have vacationed here when he was a child, or maybe he had a college friend who’d spent time in Colby. The small town was a closely guarded secret. Its pristine beauty depended on limiting the flow of tourists—locals had been known to jokingly suggest they put border guards on the Center Road to keep too many strangers from coming in. It had been sheer luck thatSophie had heard about the town from a writer friend.
    Somehow or other Mr. Smith had found his way to Colby, to the Whitten house. It would be easy to find out what or who had brought him to town, to her very doorstep.
    And she had every intention of finding out. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to waste time standing on her front porch, staring out into the darkness, thinking about him and what secrets lay behind his cool, dark eyes.
    For now she needed to concentrate on getting the inn up and running, and forget about the beautiful, mysterious stranger who’d moved practically into her backyard. In a month or so he’d be gone.
    And she’d be here, taking care of her guests, running her inn. Being happy. Or at least serene. Sometimes that was the best she could hope for.

3
    G riffin didn’t sleep well. Not that he’d expected to—being back in Colby was nerve-racking, and staring down at the lake gave him the creeps. Enough so that he couldn’t quite bring himself to break